


Creature of Light

by PlaidIsTheBestPattern



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A little bit of comfort at the end?, Angst, But kind of fucked up still, Dean Winchester Angst, Depressed Dean Winchester, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Everyone is dead except Dean, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, I kind of creeped myself out a little writing it, Lonely Dean Winchester, Mute Dean, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Panic Attacks, Parent Dean Winchester, Scared Dean Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, This Is Pretty Fucked Up, This is creepy, Traumatized Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-24 03:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17697050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaidIsTheBestPattern/pseuds/PlaidIsTheBestPattern
Summary: Chuck dies and the sun fades.Sam and Dean and Cas clutch at each other, holding on and shivering along with the whole rest of the world as the cold descends—the darkness.Tears prick at Dean’s eyes as he realizes that they’ve failed. He looks at his brother. “Sammy!”Sam disappears. Cas disappears. Their warmth is gone. Dean finds himself alone, in a dark expanse. “No no no...!” He mutters to himself, still cold and shivering. He knows this place. “No!”Amara appears.





	Creature of Light

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is kinda fucked up but I have been watching season 11 and remembering how creepy Amara's attraction to Dean was, especially when he couldn't control it from his side and didn't get a choice about his attraction to her. Also, she is like, a billion years old which basically makes him a fetus compared to her. So I was thinking about that and it turned into this weird fic. 
> 
> There is female on male rape in this, but it is not super graphic (about two lines). If that bothers you though, obviously don't read this.

Chuck dies and the sun fades. 

Sam and Dean and Cas clutch at each other, holding on and shivering along with the whole rest of the world as the cold descends—the darkness. 

Tears prick at Dean’s eyes as he realizes that they’ve failed. He looks at his brother. “Sammy!”

Sam disappears. Cas disappears. Their warmth is gone. Dean finds himself alone, in a dark expanse. “No no no...!” He mutters to himself, still cold and shivering. He knows this place. “No!”

Amara appears. There’s something even darker—even colder in her eyes now that she’s killed her brother—despite the way she smiles. 

Even still, Dean feels the pull—the way he is drawn toward her by his tainted soul. That was what Chuck told him, wasn’t it?

Dean swallows, head fuzzy but heart pounding in terror. Being around her is like being drugged—being doped up and lead somewhere you don’t want to go. “Amara... Amara what did you do?” Dean’s voice breaks and his eyes water. “Where is my brother? Where’s Sam? Where’s Cas?”

Amara’s mouth opens, a tender smile pulling her lips apart. “They’re resting now. With me. Like everyone else is except for you.”

The world becomes muffled suddenly—Amara continues speaking but Dean can’t understand anything. 

He falls on his ass. There’s a ringing in his ears.  

_Sam is gone Sam is gone SamisgoneSamisgoneSamisgoneSamisgone Casisgone everything’s gone oh god oh god oh god_

Dean holds his head in his hands. He can’t breathe. His body shakes. It’s cold. He wants to die.  

“Kill me...” He finds himself saying in a wavering voice. “Please Amara—Please! Absorb me like the rest. _Please.”_

Everyone is dead. Dean’s world is dead. 

Amara is before him suddenly—drops down and cradles his face in her hands, and Dean thinks— _Finally. This is the end._

He couldn’t be more wrong.  

“Dean...” she whispers. Then she laughs slightly like it’s funny—but there’s a haunted-ness in her eyes. “I killed my brother,” she says. 

She brushes the side of Dean’s face tenderly with her hand. 

A dark place inside Dean wants to turn into her touch, while the rest of him cringes away, chilled to the bone and terrified. He turns away as much as he can manage—dread filling him to his very being. 

There is nothing but darkness and cold around them. Dean already can't stand it. 

Amara shakes her head, “I _killed_ him,” Her voice breaks briefly, eyes wide. “He wanted to put me back in that cage... so I killed him.  But now if I’m alone... that’s... that’s just as bad.”

Dean starts to understand. “No...” he says breathlessly. 

“Yes,” Amara replies, nodding. “You understand. I need someone to stay with me—keep me company. It’s... going to be you. Just you and me—for eternity.”

Dean’s eyes spill over with tears. “No...” He mumbles—eyes glued on her—pleading and scared. He shakes his head frantically, trying to pull away and finding he can’t. 

Amara frowns in disapproval at his behavior, seeming almost perplexed. Still, she steps back, giving Dean the space she senses he needs. “Eventually... you will want this,” She says softly, looking at him with something like betrayal mixed with exasperation. “Even my brother and I required companionship. You will require it as well. You will need me, and you will come to me for comfort. I am the only one who can provide that to you now, Dean. Otherwise... you’re alone.”

She disappears, and Dean is in the void. 

 

* * *

 

Dean stumbles around for what feels like an eternity. 

He knows he’s in shock—can sense it—but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care to do anything about it. He wanders through the thick darkness like a drunk, searching fruitlessly for anything—any light or brightness that could catch his eye. 

He gasps for air that isn’t there. But apparently here, Dean doesn’t need to breathe, or eat, or drink, or sleep. 

There is nothing. 

He can’t see—not anything around him, nor even his own body. When he raises his hand to his face, there is no light to reflect back in his eyes, so there is no hand. 

He has only the feeling of his body, and the words and mumbling snippets of songs he will never hear again stumbling from his lips. His vocal cords vibrate in an effort to cut the resounding soundlessness that’s crushing him. 

The tear tracks on his face are so continual that his cheeks feel hot and irritated over time. He rubs at his arms and his chest to remind himself that they’re real. 

His legs go numb eventually. His body feels colder and colder without the light. He tries to keep mumbling. Keep moving. There is nothing but darkness and terror.  

Dean eventually starts screaming—screaming out into the dark. It doesn’t echo—it doesn’t reverberate back at him. It just stops, muffled by darkness after a few feet no matter how loud Dean cries, until his throat is too sore and stops working. 

Amara comes when he screams enough, and Dean can see her, and he runs to her like she said he would, grasping at her in terror and relief. 

It’s short-lived. 

As soon as he touches her, he realizes she isn’t... 

She isn’t right. 

She’s _cold._  

She’s dark. 

She is only more of the dark expanse. 

“Dean?” Amara asks, perplexed when Dean stumbles suddenly away. 

A creature of light brought Dean into being. Dean _needs_ _light_. He can’t survive with darkness as his companion. 

He runs from her. He runs and runs and runs until she disappears into the rest of the void—running from the reality of the eternity of loneliness that lies before him.  

Eventually, he falls and doesn’t get back up. He just curls up on the dark, sightless ground, and hugs his knees to his chest, and shivers. 

He tries to make his mind go away. He tries to live in the memory of the light—of his family—his brother, his mom, his dad, Cas, Bobby... but the dark void always intrudes, and Dean eventually cannot relive the memories the way he wants.  

He almost forgets what light was like. 

But he never stops craving it. 

 

* * *

 

Finally, Amara comes again. 

Hands touch Dean’s endlessly shivering form. 

“Oh Dean...” Amara says with a sigh. “I left you too long,” she admits, as if chastising herself. 

Dean passes out. 

 

* * *

 

He wakes up in a bed. 

A bed that he can see. 

He’s bundled up under blankets and comforters and warmth. 

It hurts his eyes—the light does—after so much time in the dark. But still Dean can’t bring himself to close his eyes once they open. 

Light. There is _light_. 

Dean looks at his hands in wonder, then looks around at the rest of the room, half-worried it’s a dream, half-wondering if what he saw before—if the darkness itself—was a dream. 

He can hear birds chirping, and he climbs out of bed eagerly. 

He looks out the window, hands pressed against the glass, hoping against hope. 

Hope fades. 

His face drops. 

He feels cold again. 

He’s in a small house—a cottage. There are trees and there is grass... but the light does not come from the sun. The light is projected out from the scene itself. The birds aren’t real. It is just their sound—the sound of birds and wind. The cottage and what surrounds it is a beacon of light in an expanse of darkness. It presses out, into the unending void of dark, but at the same time... feels endlessly oppressed by it. 

Dean is still alone. 

Dean walks numbly back to the bed and crawls under the covers, and tries to sleep everything away. 

 

* * *

 

“Hello, Dean,” Amara says one day, appearing in his room. 

Dean has been in the bed on his side ever since his brief look out the window when he first arrived. He doesn’t know for how long. There is no time anymore. Not now. Dean sleeps until he can’t, then he lays in bed with his eyes open, then he sleeps again. He hasn’t seen or spoken to anyone in what feels like eons. He looks briefly at Amara, then he goes back to staring out the window. 

It isn’t meant to be dismissive—to be a punishment. It’s just... the way Dean is now. 

Life has no meaning. There is nothing for Dean to look forward to. The light and the warmth he feels is artificial—a cheap imitation that his soul can discern at its core. 

But from here... he can’t see the way that the darkness crushes in on his small ball of light. So he stares out the window from his bed as much as he can, pretending the light expands out forever. 

The foot of his bed sinks as Amara sits down. “I realized... when I found you in the dark... that... I cannot treat you as if you were my creation. You are my brother’s creature.  You are a creature of light. He gave you... needs. You have a need for... for light. Light that reflects Him. It is imperative for your survival.” 

She touches his leg where it rests under the blankets, and Dean shivers with a jolt of cold, curling in on himself tighter, staring out the window still. 

“So... I used part of the remaining essence of my brother that lies now at rest within me... And I brought you light, and sound, and sustenance for the eye. Still though... you do not improve.” She sighs, then continues as if impatient: “You do not speak, you do not move. You just stare out the window, as if you were a caged bird. You do not see the darkness the way that I see it.” 

Dean doesn’t respond. There’s nothing he can say—he doesn’t know if he can even form words anymore, to express desire or to shout curses or to make pleas. He doesn’t know if he remembers how. 

She sighs again, and sits with him for a while. 

 

* * *

 

Amara goes away again. Time passes... or it doesn’t. Dean doesn’t move. 

He doesn’t age. He doesn’t want for food or drink—maybe for their comforts, but not their necessity.  

He drifts in and out of consciousness—reality. 

He thinks about killing himself—breaking the window glass and using it to cut his throat. But ultimately, he knows it’s fruitless. There is no heaven, no hell, no Purgatory. There isn’t anywhere for his immortal soul to go in death except right back here, to Amara’s endless darkness. Death brings no ending to his misery. 

Dean can feel himself slipping away anyway though—dying somehow. So it isn’t necessary to kill himself. Souls may last forever if unharmed... but Dean’s soul is fading away anyway from lack of sustenance and will eventually cease to exist. He can feel it.

One day, Amara is there again, sitting on the end of the bed. 

Her hand bunches in Dean’s comforters, and she begins pulling them away. 

Dean looks at her, eyes wary though he doesn't move—wondering why she interrupts his rest and wants to steal his warmth. He just wants to die warm. 

“I think... that you need creatures like yourself. I think that my brother made your kind... not to be alone—that you cannot live without others with souls of light.”

Dean’s heart expands, wondering if maybe...

Amara pulls all the covers away. “I cannot bring back any of my brother’s other creatures for you... but... we can make new ones.”

Amara’s hands drift back behind her dress, and Dean hears it unzip. 

Dread fills Dean’s entire being. His heart pounds. He shakes his head. She can’t mean what he thinks she means. She can’t. His breath begins coming in gasps.  

Amara doesn’t stop at the sound of his distress. 

_No._ She’ll bring... she’ll bring some other poor creature into this _darkness_ —into this _miserable_ expanse that Dean can’t stand. _No. No!_

She takes his clothes—removes each article. 

Dean can’t talk—can’t form words to tell her to stop. 

He can’t force her to stop either. His limbs are ineffectual, weak things—like those of a newborn to her. There is nothing he can do to assert his will in this space. 

She is a being of immeasurable power. Dean is a doll—a plaything with which she can do as she wills. 

She at least has the sense to acknowledge his distress when she takes him into herself. 

She wipes Dean’s tears away with her thumbs, giving him a reassuring smile as she moves up and down. “It’s better this way, Dean. You will understand soon. This is what you need.”

 

* * *

 

Dean falls out of bed after she leaves, soft noises of distress coming from his throat, and vision blurring. He can barely walk—stumble-crawls to the door opposite the bed, which he has never opened. He finds, as he hoped, a shower. 

Dean hasn’t felt water in ages. It feels warm and wonderful on his skin—washes the memory of Amara’s hands on his flesh away. It can’t take away the feeling inside Dean that he is _sick_ for still carrying that same dark attraction to her though, even after what she’s done. 

 

* * *

 

Dean is in bed again when Amara comes.  

Dean doesn’t move—but his lip wobbles as he wonders if she’s going to do to him what she did before. 

Then he hears the cries of a child. 

A chill runs through Dean. His eyes are drawn to the bundle of blankets in her arms. She shushes it, then looks over at Dean, smiling. “Dean? I brought you a gift,” she says softly, seeming quite pleased with herself.  

She walks to the side of the bed, leans down into Dean’s space and places the bundle on the bed beside him. 

The infant is young—can’t be more than a few days old by Dean’s estimate. Dean expects it to look... wrong somehow. But it looks normal—just like a regular old baby, with a tuft of dark hair on its head, eyes squeezes shut. Its eyes well with tears as it makes it’s displeasure known. 

Dean stares. He stares for a long time. 

Then he _wants_.

He _needs_.  

Dean sits up in bed, and grabs at the baby, pulling it against his chest—against his soul.

It’s like... he can feel the child’s essence is also... is also light like him, and the their souls thrum together. 

Another creature of light. 

Another creature like _him_. 

Dean has been alone, but this baby is...

“This child... it is... the only thing that I have ever helped create,” Amara says, looking at Dean with a smile. “It is a child of both light and darkness. It is filled with my power. But bodies of light brought it into being. And it has a soul of light that it gained from you—which must be fed, just like yours—with light from other souls. It needs a creature of light to guide it—to mother and father it and nurture it So I will entrust it to your care. The two of you... will take care of each other and keep each other well.”

Amara disappears. 

The baby cries. 

Dean stares until his eyes blur with tears. 

A part of him hates the child—what it means. What created it. But another part of him—a larger part—can’t hate it at all.  

It isn’t its fault that it’s here. And now... 

Dean hugs it as tight as he dares, whole body trembling. Almost mechanically, his arms begin to rock it softly, like some kind long-buried instinct. 

The baby settles down a little, but it still cries some. Shushing noises start to come from Dean’s mouth, almost unbidden, and then a tune he barely remembers starts rumbling from his throat. He doesn’t remember the name anymore. He thinks his mother sang it to him. 

The baby roots around, looking for the source of the sound, squeezing its eyes open. It stares up at Dean, eyes settling on him sleepily. Then it smiles. 

It’s eyes are a dark, brown/green. 

It... it _needs_. What happened isn’t its fault, and it needs someone. It needs Dean. 

Dean also needs it. 

Dean’s hand reaches out, sliding down the baby’s cheek softly, before taking it’s small hand between his finger and thumb.

Dean smiles back at it, wobbly. His voice rasps out through the silence cut only by artificial bird song. “Hey, Sammy."


End file.
